Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
The Pig Who Became a Hero — An Allegory
(with apologies to Eric Blair, otherwise known as George Orwell)
©By Vijaya Sundaram
Jan. 24th, 2012
It was dusk. Purple twilight had gathered up the last of the sunlight and blown it gently away to the west, where it sank sighing into the hills. The farm was done for the day, and the farmer, an independent woman who had longed to own her own farm for years and had finally managed it in her middle age, had gone off to her rest.
A large pig snuffled through the trough, rooting for the tastiest bits. Apple cores, oat mush, old vegetables, pig meal specially prepared, all mashed and mixed together made for the best, most piggilicious dinner. The pig’s name was Herman, and he was an old, happy, well-cared-for pig. His owner was a vegetarian farmer, and had only wanted a pig because she liked his funny little eyes, and pugnacious manner.
Then, along came Herman’s friend, the barnyard horse, whose name was Milt. Milt leaned over the trough, and whinnied something. The pig shrugged. His mind was elsewhere — on the food, to be precise.
Milt the horse tried again. Herman the pig raised his snout, glared at Milt, grunted and said around the food in his mouth, “Shut up. Can’t you see I’m eating? This is my hour of deep meditation. Go bother someone else.”
Milt was upset, and put out his hoof, and kicked Herman, who barely budged, because he weighed seven hundred pounds, and was pretty much immovable.
Milt said, “If you do not listen, there is going to be trouble. Look up, and you’ll see why.”
Herman looked up irritatedly, and then felt a sudden jolt of fear like a bolt of lightning in his heart. Leaning over the fence were some rather rapacious-looking men, with slouchy shoulders, hats pulled over their heads, and ragged clothes. Pig thieves! was the phrase that went through Herman’s porcine mind.
“This one looks like he’ll make several good meals through the fall,” rasped one desperado, looking interestedly at Herman.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s grab him and shove him into the back of our van,” said the other, ropes and other mysterious objects ready at hand. “And while we’re at it, why don’t we grab this horse as well? Might as well!”
Herman uttered a high-pitched squeal, Milt neighed loudly, and the barnyard burst into noise, which woke up the dogs, and mayhem ensued.
The men burst into the yard, and tried to wrestle the pig into captivity, but Herman was quicker than they were. He ran at them, and tossed one over his shoulder. Milt kicked the other one, who fell down, clutching his leg. The dogs came bursting out of their kennels, and sank their teeth viciously into their legs. They yelled in fright and pain. The farmer came skidding out, in fluffy bunny slippers and dressing gown, her hair in a bun. She had a shotgun in her hand, and she showed no hesitation in pointing it at them, while calling the dogs away. The men writhed on the ground, groaning loudly.
Then, Herman spoke, and silence fell, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all creatures on the farm are created equal, that they are endowed by their Farmer with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of pig-stealers. So, let’s chase these thugs away!”
The other animals roared their approval, and the farmer stood, stunned, because Herman the pig had spoken in English. She leaned back against the barn, with her hand on her heart, and a smile on her face, the gun slipping soundlessly into the squishy mud.
And so, Herman and all the animals chased the two men away, and lived happily ever after with their beloved farmer, unharmed by other humans till the end of their lives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, allegory, George Orwell, Talking animals
Feb 14, 2013 THE STORIES
Almost the Day of Reckoning – An Atheist’s Allegory
©February 13th, 2013
By Vijaya Sundaram
There was a hush.
It settled over the land, a vagueness that brought a disquieting sense of menace. A message emerged from the hush, cloaked in scarlet, masked in secrecy, outlined in ice.
The birds carried the message to creatures across the land. The trees leaned closer to listen, and dropped the message into their acorns.
The squirrels which picked up the acorns held them to their little furry ears and listened with alarm widening their eyes, and making their breath whistle in their tiny nostrils. They dropped the acorns and ran.
The message burst out of the acorns, and blossomed into a cloud of pestilence, which bore these unmistakable words in every known human language: Death is coming to the land. Make haste and flee. You will not escape it, but you can buy time.
Those who heard the message made haste and fled.
They rode in silver ships into the depths of the galaxy.
They dived in silver ships into the deepest abysses of the oceans.
They dug their way deep into burrows and build colonies, and lived hidden from view.
A few put on their best raiment, wrote songs and stories and poems, planted seeds in the ground, planted trees, and waited with open eyes and unafraid hearts.
Death came, soon enough.
Arrayed in the blackest night with nary a star to show the way, she stood, tall and terrible, and her smoky voice filled the air.
I have come, she said, for I have a mission to fulfill. I see that the others have gone. I shall find them soon enough. But why and wherefore did you stay? I do not spare souls. It is time for all humans to be wiped out. You are the pestilence. You have bled the earth, and choked the air with your noxious vapors and made the mountains tremble with the sounds of war. Why are you still here? Why did you not buy some time, and flee from me?
A silence fell like soft fog.
Then, the oldest stepped forward. Ancient wrinkles creased her face, and her smile shone like the moon through the clouds, for though she was afraid, she was prepared. Her heart was blameless, and she had borne the burden of her days with calm stoicism. With hair like spun silver, and a voice like the sighing of the trees, she spoke:
You may take us, but our songs fill the air. The birds have learned them. Our plants are growing to the rhythm of our work and our songs. Our trees are breathing in the breath we weave into these notes. The earth is calming herself. For you see, we read a message within your message that blossomed scarlet and terrible from the acorns. So, while the others fled, we knew we had a sliver of time in which we could leave behind something beyond our horrible deeds. So, take us now. We are not afraid. But mind, without our songs and our working hands, the earth will forget herself and the beauty she wrought when she made us.
The earth regrets you! spake Death, her voice shivering the air into ice, making it tremble. She blames herself. She rues the day that you were made. I am her sole hope. I will have to slay you all.
We are not afraid, murmured the assembled people, although their hearts were frozen with fear.
Death was quiet for a moment, then spoke again:
You have broken the fundamental laws of nature. You have bled the rocks and smashed the atom for gain. You have burned your plastics and trashed the oceans. You have not been good stewards of the land. You have left nothing for the generations to follow. The daughters of your daughters of your daughters unto the seventh generation will inherit a land that is dessicated and stunted. The sons of your sons of your, sons unto the seventh generation will breathe (if they can still breathe) noxious vapors, and their DNA will shift and re-form into that which deforms humankind. The birds will bear their kind with two heads, and the beasts of the field will bloat and bear monstrosities. I shall have to slay you all.
We are not afraid, murmured the assembled people, although their souls swelled with terror.
Death looked at them, admiring the puny humans assembled, humble and unafraid of her might.
And she spake yet again, for though she was terrible, yet was she merciful. If I let you stay a little longer, and come for you not all at once, but in stages, (for I have to come), will you restore this earth, who is my sister and your mother? she asked, and this time, her voice was the merest whisper, gentler, kinder, so that the people ceased to quake and tremble within. Will you sing her songs? Will you turn those swords into plough-shares, and those guns into instruments that make music? Will you treat the animals of the land and sea, and the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea as your brethren and your sisters? And Death paused, for she had surprised herself, and wondered at herself.
And the youngest stepped forward. Her hair stood stiffly around her head like a halo, and her eyes were stars. Her skin shone like copper, and her smile was radiant like the sun. Her voice was like a bell of purest silver, and her heart was the heart of a lioness.
We shall, she said. You must keep your promise, dear Death. Do not strike us down in haste. For we shall welcome you when you come in good time. We shall not resist, as we do not resist now.
Death spake again, and she said, This shall I do for my sister, your mother, the Earth. And this I do also, for you, unto you, that you may live and bear your children, and bring peace unto this earth.
The people murmured among themselves, and started to chant the song of peace. And the chant swelled into a chorus that flew on the wings of birds and wafted on the waves of the seas.
And silence spread her wings and carried that song to the far reaches of the earth.
Seeing this, Death took her leave and went to find the others, for she still had a mission to fulfill, although her heart was not in it. Yet, for all that, she was happy.
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Note: This was, at the time, an unconscious tip of the hat to Oscar Wilde’s style of writing new parables in the style of Biblical parables. So, this is a cousin once removed (or something) in terms of style.
Tags: #Death, #Life, #Peace, allegory, Climate Change, Green Earth, humanism, Original Short Stories, parable, Restoring the Planet, Seventh Generation, Stewards of the land, War